


The Edge of the World

by rhaegars_harp



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Cousin Incest, Eventual Smut, Jealous Jon Snow, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lord Commander Baratheon, Magic, Relationships Will Be Added As They Appear, Starks are Wargs, Targaryens Live, Underage Sex, Wolves, lots of wolves, slightly aged up characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:10:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhaegars_harp/pseuds/rhaegars_harp
Summary: Six years ago, two dragons flew north to be raised by a pack of wolves. All the while, lions and snakes plot, magic stirs, and two wolves entwine their destinies.





	1. Jaehaerys I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Lost Emperor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12819756) by [House_Blackfyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_Blackfyre/pseuds/House_Blackfyre). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the wolfpack. And a kraken. Oh, and two dragons.

Jaehaerys I

 

_Gods, his head hurt._

Swords and games and lessons can only hold a youth’s interest for a certain time. Eventually, children grow older, and accompanying their increased height and deeper voices comes a curiosity for more mature activities. For the past three years or so, Jaehaerys Targaryen and his compatriots have epitomized this idea of “coming to age,” with the training yard of Winterfell eschewed for their own personal playground of Wintertown. Why swing a rotting wooden practice sword when you can drink your weight in ale?

This very choice is the one haunting the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms as the morning sunlight streamed into his quarters, although he was pretty sure that his head would feel like it was thrown around by giants regardless of the time he stirred from previous night’s activities. Whilst Jaehaerys left brothels for his companions, he truly did enjoy his times spent in the taverns of Wintertown. Not much for dominating conversation, Jae preferred to listen to the stories of the Rebellion that grizzled veterans still told, to join in with the cacophonies of drunken laughter, and to drink until he stumbled back to Winterfell’s gates.

Last night had quickly shifted to this morning, and turning away from the blinding sunlight, the first thing that the prince noticed was a mammoth pile of snow white slumbering in the corner. The awe-inspiring, scarlet-eyed canine and the quiet prince with obsidian orbs were one soul in two bodies, and for three years now, the pair have been inseparable, nearly as inseparable as Jaehaerys and another wolf.

Shedding his furs and donning a simple navy tunic and black breeches, Jae begins to weave his way through his second home, in order to break his fast. The past few years have had him questioning whether the North was his second home, when in fact it might just be _home_ after all. As he walks through the ancient halls of Winterfell, he thinks about life south of the Neck, about the constant heat and the constant duties and the constant lessons. Catching himself, Jae allows the good parts, well, only good part, of living in King’s Landing to enter his mind: his family. Six years is a long time to go without a father and little sister buried amongst a pile of Valyrian scrolls, or without an equally mischievous lilac-eyed partner-in-crime, or without a mother. Gods, he can still remember how nobody in Winterfell could say her name for nearly a year, at the risk of making a ten-year-old Jaehaerys burst into tears by bringing back memories of their separation. However, for all the family he misses, he gained an entire new one at the seat of his ancestors, a family that waited just on the other side of the ornate wooden, direwolf engraved, doors of Winterfell’s Great Hall.

The doors creak and groan as they swing open to reveal a wolfpack, a beached kraken, and a dragon that flew north along with him. The family always broke their fast together, seated in the center of the Great Hall, with four wooden chairs on each side of the oaken table, capped by a chair at each end. The first sight greeting him was the back and auburn hair of Lady Catelyn Stark, worn in a Northern braid over her left shoulder. A kind, somewhat stern woman, Jae had absolutely no idea how the Lady of Winterfell managed a household of eight absolute menaces. Behind him, the dual doors slammed shut, signifying the dragonwolf’s arrival.

“Glad to see you made it back Jon, considering how you having a little trouble keeping your eyes open last night.”

Of course, Theon would be the first to bring up the prince’s drunkenness last evening. Three years older than him, and a resident of Winterfell for three years longer, Theon Greyjoy is the heir to the Iron Islands, the kingdom that Theon’s father rose in revolt against Jae’s, or Jon as he’s called by most, father. As a result, Theon was ushered to the North, a hostage in case Lord Balon decided once again that a kraken can defeat a dragon. More importantly however was Theon’s knowledge, and eagerness to share said knowledge, about taverns, brothels, serving maids, and other hedonistic ideals, all things that he was more than happy to show his three younger friends by the time they turned one and three.

Walking behind Theon’s side of the table to his own chair, Jae deadpanned, “Sorry I had a fun night, Greyjoy. The only reason you were back so early was because you begged for Ros’s hand for the hundredth time, and it’s the hundredth time she’s said no.”

“Boys! If we cannot talk about this in the morning, or ever truly, I’d greatly appreciate it.” Lady Stark always needed to censor the older members of her pack, and though she certainly knew who Ros was, she was not going to let talks of whores and ale corrupt her youngest wolves.

“Apologies, Lady Stark.” Sitting down, Jae offered his increasingly deep-voiced, sincere contrition when he felt a hand comb through the raven locks spilling down to his shoulder.

“And they say I’m the one that tries to be pretty all the time! Cut your hair brother, you’ll be indistinguishable from the Queen once we’re back!”

Rolling his eyes at Theon’s snicker and the smirk that was undoubtedly on the boy to his right’s face, Jon endured the jape from Prince Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Heir to The Seven Kingdoms. However, the only name Jon has ever called him has eschewed all his titles and pomp; Aegon was simply “Egg” and Jaehaerys was simply “Jon.”

“Rich coming from you, Egg. Keep growing your locks out and you’ll be twins with Daenerys,” Jon responded. His half-brother had lost the sun-inspired glow of his Dornish blood; while the North turned his skin paler, his inherited silver locks, amethyst eyes, and constant growth had turned Egg into a mirror image of their father. Turning to his left slightly, Jae found a person in the Great Hall who felt as miserable and hungover as himself, his brother in everything but name. Tall and lean, like him and Egg, except with a crown of auburn hair so dark it was nearly brown and crystal blue eyes, passed down to him from Lady Catelyn. Although right now, the heir to Winterfell looked greener than the pine needles in the wolfswood. All the two boys with Stark blood could do, amongst a sea of clattering silverware and full mouths, was to stare at the pile of salted bacon and poached eggs on their plates.

Arching an eyebrow, and glancing at the two boys seated closest on his right, Lord Eddard Stark asked, “How late did the two of you stay out last evening?”

“Father, it truly wasn’t that late, and you know that Wintertown is a stone’s throw away from the gat-“

“I promise you we behaved Uncle Ned, we just lost track of tim-“

The older brother of his mother, Eddard Stark was unequivocally one of the best men he knew. Upon arriving at Winterfell in his tenth year, Uncle Ned’s kind gray eyes, stories before bed, and dedication to everyone in his pack instantly made Jae and Aegon feel like the ancient seat of House Stark was home. However, Jaehaerys knew that his uncle had to keep the boys in line somehow, and holding his breath, the prince awaited the Warden of the North’s sentence.

“Save your excuses for the stables, boys,” Eddard began, “I want them clean, every day, for three weeks.”

Robb’s head slowly slammed against the back of his chair, and before Jae had a chance to bargain, he heard a pair of giggles from across the table, from the two seats nearest Lady Catelyn.

“It’d be real shame if I can’t spar with you now Rickon, and Bran, looks like I won’t have time for archery lessons with you,” Jon teased, effectively silencing his two younger cousins. Brandon Stark, with hair a shade lighter than his older brother’s, is the most renowned climber within these walls, having scaled each and every tower within Winterfell’s gates. As for Rickon, the boy followed each of the elder four young men around like a puppy, whether it was begging Jaehaerys to spar with him, or sneaking tarts from the kitchen with Aegon.

Turning his gaze away from the end of the table, Jae offered a smile to his cousin Sansa, seated to the left of his uncle. At four and ten, Sansa Stark could only return the prince’s smile with a pretty blush that matched her crimson mane. The poor girl was in love with the two, notably un-betrothed, princes, who fulfilled every Southorn song that she would beg Jae and Egg to sing for her.

Finally, Jaehaerys Targaryen looked directly across the table, where his pools of indigo-tinted obsidian locked with two chips of slate-colored ice. Her dark hair cascaded in waves over her shoulders, even wilder than his own. From her eyes, Jae trailed his own down her face, over her graceful nose dotted with a sprinkle of freckles, down to her increasingly full lips, currently screwed together in a smirk, reveling in both his post-drinking misery and subsequent punishment. Slowly, his own lips curled together in a smile, just like looking in a mirror.

_His Little Wolf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this story is inspired by house_blackfyre's The Lost Emperor, a sprawling creation in progress that happened to mention that Aegon and Jon fostered in The North in their teenage years. That little kernel inspired me, and inspired the start of this story.
> 
> Ages: (in terms of canonical years, this story takes place in the year 299 AC)  
> Robb Stark - 16  
> Sansa Stark - 14  
> Arya Stark - 13  
> Brandon Stark - 10  
> Rickon Stark - 7  
> Theon Greyjoy - 19  
> Aegon Targaryen - 17  
> Jaehaerys Targaryen - 16
> 
> Please do comment/critique, and enjoy!


	2. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his dragons prepare to fly south, the Lord of Winterfell reminiscences, reflects, and stresses.

Eddard I

_Dearest good-brother,_

_I hope this message finds you in both good health and good happiness. Six years ago, I entrusted my sons to the epitome of honor, loyalty, and strength. You have done me a great honor by raising Aegon and Jaehaerys, but it is time for the boys to become men. By the time you receive this, I will be near The Trident, en route to Winterfell to return the princes to the capital. Your sister eagerly awaits her return home._

_Regards,_

_King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._

As the light of his solar danced over the parchment and torn three-headed dragon sigil, the Warden of the North reflected on the past half-decade and his role in raising the two dragons within his gates. The crown prince had been a boy of one and ten when he arrived at Winterfell, all Targaryen features and charming exuberance. With a propensity to subconsciously become the center of attention in any given room, Eddard focused the majority of Aegon’s fostering on ensuring the boy’s natural charisma blossomed into confidence instead of arrogance, into strength instead of a need to please everyone. Immediately upon arrival, Aegon had a bow in hand alongside Theon, was hiding amongst the grain stores with Robb, and delighted in regaling Sansa with tales of tournaments and gardens exploding with color and the different characters of his father’s court. Eddard was confident that Aegon would be an able, strong, considerate king following Rhaegar, and the Lord of Winterfell was content with the fact that he did his absolute best in trying to turn the prince from a boy into a man. While he will always cherish his years with the young silver-haired dragon, it’s the boy that resembles the Kings of Winter more than Valyrian dragonlords that he will miss the most.

The first time Eddard Stark laid eyes on Jaehaerys Targaryen was nearly two decades ago, yet he could remember it like it had happened the day prior. Describing that year has always eluded Eddard; it seems like no existing words can summarize or capture the onslaught and emotion during that time.

* * *

 

From Harrenhal to his brother Brandon’s charge south to his death, a fate their father would share, the year began with overwhelming grief and loss. Within months, the Lord of Winterfell and his heir were piles of ashes, Lord Rickard’s daughter had vanished without a trace, and Eddard led twenty-thousand northmen down The Neck demanding justice.

As the rebel leaders prepared for battle on the shores of The Trident, a hooded man on a massive black stallion rode into their camp under the white flag of parley. When Brynden Tully dragged the shrouded knight into the leaders’ tent, Eddard was impossibly confused. By no means was the war in anyone’s favor yet, as the coming battle looked to determine the fate of many, many men. The heir to the Iron Throne had marched from the south with ten-thousand Dornishmen and another twelve from The Reach, and scouts reported that battle was imminent. Robert had laughed, his shoulders shaking as he thought the enemy would rather surrender than face his war hammer on the field. The two younger men could not have been more ignorant to who their visitor was, as Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn both slowly rose, their experience and intuition giving them a hint to who the tall, slender man was. Grasping his hood, the Blackfish pulled back the cloak from the man, revealing a pair of violet eyes and a mane of silver hair. The prince had come to talk.

Ned remembers holding back Robert along with their foster father, the stag trying to charge at the dragon. The Blackfish dragged five chairs around the small table in the tent, while Ned’s new father-in-law deposited a mug filled with ale at each setting. Over the course of the next four hours, Rhaegar Targaryen explained, apologized, and propositioned the rebel leaders. Explained how he and the mystery knight of Harrenhal fell in love and fled to escape her betrothal, reveling in their youthful romance. Apologized for their disappearance, for having the blood of Rickard and Brandon Stark on his hands, for absconding with the Storm Lord’s betrothed. Propositioned that the Houses Stark, Baratheon, Arryn, and Tully would emerge from this war untouched, with gold and prestige exceeding their current lofty levels if the rebels rode with the prince to King’s Landing. Rhaegar confessed that even he was not blind to his father’s madness, and intended to depose of him peacefully, exiling him to Dragonstone. The two trout in attendance rose from their seats and fell to one knee, promising Rhaegar the Riverlands. Next to stand was Jon Arryn, and gazing at the two young men he raised, a gaze that tried to convey as much fatherly advice and guidance as possible, bent his knee to the silver prince. Bracing his hands against the table, Eddard considered the man in front of him. His father was dead because of the dragons. His brother was dead because of the dragons. Rhaegar claimed that him and Lyanna loved each other, but just hours ago the rebel force used the “rape” of Lyanna Stark as one of the main causes to rally around as they marched towards the capital. However, Lya was still alive if Rhaegar could be believed, and over the hours of that night, he had revealed himself to be as intelligent, considerate, and graceful as he was reported to be. He represented stability and peace after this nightmare of a year, and Eddard Stark was tired of fighting. Using his hands to propel him from his seat, the new Lord of Winterfell pledged his sword to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

One man remained sitting. Standing four inches above six feet, with shoulders as wide as an ox’s and arms corded with muscle, Robert Baratheon was an image of the Warrior himself. For every positive attribute about the man Eddard had counted as his brother, Robert also possessed the inverse. The man could make friends with a stone wall, but his propensity to drink to excess often left the hulking man intoxicated for days at a time. Robert’s heart was nearly as large as his biceps, with generosity and conversation to go around for every man, woman, or child. However, his strong emotions are exactly what doomed the match between Robert and Lyanna, the match that Rhaegar fractured. The Lord of Storm’s End became infatuated with the _idea_ of Lyanna Stark, the northern beauty, all timberwolf eyes and pouty full lips and cascading brown locks. While Lyanna’s beauty is easy to become entranced with, Robert ignored the real she-wolf, the one that would rather spar than knit, would rather ride her courser bareback than attend frivolous court ceremonies. And, despite Rhaegar’s apologies and honesty, that he did not intend to take the man’s betrothed but that the two really were in love, Robert still viewed Lyanna Stark as his.

“You surely don’t mean for me to bend my knee to this monster,” Robert asked the room. “This ABOMINATION of incest, this dragon-spawn, kidnapped Lyanna, my Lyanna! Your own god damned sister Ned!”

Rhaegar’s response shattered the ethereal, near inhuman impassivity that the heir-apparent had displayed through the parley.

“My lord, I understand your anger, truly I do. But the two of us have nothing to gain by fighting, I promise you. Bend your knee and I will ensure you return to Storm’s End safe. Lyanna… she loves me, and I her. I am hers,” Rhaegar gushed as his violet orbs began to swell with crystal tears. “There is nothing you did Robert, it simply was not a match. But we can move on from that, I come to you humbled. We can restore peace to the realm, ensure our family’s legacies will endure forever.”

Laughing darkly, Robert unfolded his figure from the table, his booming voice shouting now. “Oh, you mistake me Targaryen. We are going to go out of this tent, you’re going to pick up your sword and I’m going to pick up my hammer, and I’m going TO CAVE YOUR CHEST IN! This ends tonight, Your Grace, and the one man alive is the man that gets Lyanna Stark.”

Eddard remembers that moment, when his best friend talked about his sister like she was destrier to be auctioned away. Everything had happened so fast after Robert’s threat, as he lunged across the table, landing a fist across Rhaegar’s high cheekbone. Jon Arryn was grabbing Robert’s collar as the Blackfish landed his own punch across the bearded maw of the stag.

“I deserved that punch, my lord. I find no offense in striking me. However,” as Rhaegar’s unreadable, cold mask returned, “I will not tolerate your treatment of Lyanna as if she was property. That was your folly, Robert. You can’t tame a wolf. Lord Tully, please put Lord Baratheon is irons, and confine him to his tent.”

Mustering his strength, Brynden Tully dragged the drunken, enraged Robert from the tent, and the curses and threats grew quieter and quieter until there was silence among the four remaining men.

“Well, my lords, shall we begin?”

* * *

 

After that simple question, plans were made, and action was taken. Lord Arryn would be sent to parley with Mace Tyrell in the Stormlands, lifting the siege on Storm’s End and bringing the Reach into Rhaegar’s plan. The Lord of Riverrun was sent to Casterly Rock, to meet with and to inform Tywin Lannister of the change in the tides, as the lion had sequestered himself in his great castle for the better part of the past decade. This left Brynden Tully, Eddard, and the prince himself to lead the vanguard, over forty-thousand northmen, Knights of the Vale, rivermen, reachmen, and Dornishmen to march for the capital to install their prince as their king.

The next fortnight was chaos personified. As the men marched to the capital, they found the gates wide open, the markets barren, with the air weighing heavily of consequence and disaster. Rhaegar brought Eddard with him to the Red Keep, furiously sprinting to the Great Hall, as if he knew something was wrong. The elegant prince bounded the steps, with Eddard running in tow. Each grasping a handle of an oaken door, nothing could have prepared the two young men to witness the scene of the throne room.

Torches lined the walls of the room, bathing the dragon skulls with their light and shadows, dancing over the massive bones. As if in a trance, Eddard followed Rhaegar, both dragging their feet as they tried to comprehend what was before them. Do you start to try to understand the pile of skin and bones masquerading as a king sprawled before the dais of the throne, with a hole in his back and a slit in his throat? Or how do you make sense of the golden-haired, baby-faced, white-armored knight standing guard at the base of the throne, brandishing a still bloody sword? However, the most shocking sight was the Iron Throne, and who was occupying it. Perched upon the grotesque seat was a woman with olive skin and dark, oiled hair, a single circlet of silver around her head. She dressed in a black, Dornish style dress, and wore her hair up in a bun, as if to draw attention to the fresh, savage scar that trailed from collarbone to navel. Eddard Stark had never seen such a cold, stern look on a woman’s face as he looked up at Elia Martell.

Her frail frame descended the steps elegantly, staring at what Eddard thought was her husband, he would only learn afterwards that Rhaegar had their marriage annulled during his absence, the entire time. When she had reached the bottom, she slowly removed her crown and placed it on the bottom of the dais.

Striding towards the silver prince, well king now, Elia laid her hand on the side of his face and asked, “Do you want your throne, Rhaegar?”

“That’s not important right now, gods what happened Eli-“

“Just let me go home. That’s all I want, Rhaegar. I’ve endured this hell for half a decade, and I can’t do it. You left me, for so long. I know we don’t love each other, but I care for you Rhaegar. Do you know what this is from?” She took Rhaegar’s hand and trailed it down her bony torso, from the peak of the cut near her neck all the way between her breasts. “Three nights ago, that monster brought me in here, in full view of the court. He knew you were marching here Rhaegar, Varys has been in his ear constantly. He stripped me to my shift, and while he had Rossart prepare the wildfire, he took a dagger and trailed it up and down my body. Every pass made the cut deeper, to the point I couldn’t hold my sobs. That bastard had Rhaenys and Aegon brought in to, he was going to make our children watch me die. The bloody pyromancer finally emerged with his caches, more than usual. Far more. Rhaegar, he was going to burn the Keep down, he would rather make this city a ruin than lea-“

“All I have done the past fortnight has been apologize, and I can’t even find the words to say to you Elia, nothing will be enough-“

“Then let me leave! I’ve done my duty Rhaegar. I’ve birthed you two healthy babes, I endured this HELL for months, I am finished. I know you love her, your message said everything it needed too. I don’t hate you either, Your Grace, I understand. I wish you and your queen the best, but this is goodbye.”

Both the Dornish princess and the Valyrian king had silent tears streaming down their faces, mourning a future that can never be realized, a match that just could not synchronize.

“What about Rhaenys, and Aegon? They need their mother, Elia, I know it is selfish, but _they_ need you.”

“They are dragons, Your Grace. Dorne is not where dragons should be raised.”

With that, the princess of Dorne’s frail form gilded past Rhaegar and Eddard, out the mammoth doors, to return to the land of sand, snakes, and sun.

* * *

 

Eddard remembers how shell-shocked the two men were, how a few whirlwind moments had ended up resolved. Elia had departed, yet there was still another matter that demanded attention. A young lion, his sword as crimson as his sigil, stared back at the two slightly older men.

“Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar began, “if this is how it looks the-“

“You told me to protect them, Your Grace. Protect them I did,” Jaime replied.

Why Eddard felt he could address the Kingsguard, he still doesn’t know, but he felt the need to interject.

“Did you not swear an oath, Ser Jaime? The only seven men in the realm that couldn’t strike him, yet you did anyways?” Eddard asked.

Eyes darkening, Jaime snarled back, “Your Northern honor protests that, Lord Stark? I was there, that day. I gripped my sword so tight that my knuckles turned white, fought my instinct to charge so hard that I was shaking. Five hundred souls, Lord Stark, watched your father melt to ashes and your brother strangle himself like a dog. Five hundred souls stood there, planted to the floor, silent. Sometimes, life demands more than honor allows. I rid the world of a monster.”

Jaime turned to Rhaegar, anguish covering his face. “You wouldn’t have believed it. He had been stewing for days, torn between Varys’ tales and the denial that his son would never match on his gates. Eventually, the eunuch's little birds won out, and Elia was dragged into this very hall. Her screams, Rhaegar,” Jaime was crying now, “and Rhaenys’ cries and Aegon’s wails, everything almost ended that afternoon. The blood was flowing down her chest, as he sat perched up on that throne, muttering and cackling. Rossart waddled in with that green pot, with its crackling and bubbling. The decision was easy to kill him, the pyromancer. I killed the men holding Elia next, and by now your father had half fallen down those bloody steps in his mania.”

Jaime stopped abruptly, visibly shaking now. “His mutters had turned to screams at this point, ‘Burn them! Burn them all!’…  I did the only thing my instincts told me to do. Take my hand, take my head, send me north, but I don’t apologize, Your Grace.”

Eddard turned to his left to look at his new silver-haired companion to find a storm of emotions across his elegant face, like the impassivity was dueling with combined forces of grief, anger, and indecision.

“I truly, truly am at a loss Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar forced out. “You sail for Dragonstone tonight, you retrieve my mother, you ensure her health and safety, you sail back here, and you protect her with your life until I return.”

Simultaneously, Eddard and Jaime reared on the new king.

“Where could you possibly go Rhaegar, we just marched for a fortnight straight to get here in tim-“

“But Your Grace! The city needs _yo_ -“

Rhaegar’s regal, commanding voice returned, the dragon recovering from his emotional turmoil. “My mother will watch the city for my absence, Ser Jaime. I know no one more capable, and the realm deserves to see the real Rhaella Targaryen, not the weak woman they think their queen was.”

Finally, with a ghost of a smile on his face, Rhaegar turned to Eddard.

“My lord, we ride for Dorne immediately.”

* * *

 

For three weeks, the two men rode relentlessly, their uneasy partnership motivated by a young woman in a tower where joy resided. At last, the duo rode up the windy dirt path to a, frankly, rather simple keep of golden brown stone, watched over by a bat, a White Bull, and the Sword of the Mourning himself. It still seems like just yesterday that Rhaegar was leaping from his still galloping destrier, forcing Eddard to a hurried halt and sprint after his king. Past the Kingsguard they ran, taking the tower’s steps two at a time into the narrow hallway. Never breaking stride, Rhaegar used his shoulder to push open the door, catching himself as he stepped into the room.

“Rhaegar,” he heard a husky Northern voice implore, “you came my love.”

It was really her. Truly, months after Eddard had thought the worst for his baby sister, she was in this tower. Alive, and in love. Stepping into the room, he saw dead blue rose petals covering the floor, a silver stringed harp leaned up against a corner, and a silver dragon kneeling by a she-wolf’s bedside, an entire world’s amount of adoration and devotion in his eyes. The door closed behind him, and those winter storms that Lyanna called eyes found his stone gray one’s.

“Ned? Is that you? Is that really you?” She rose from her bed gingerly, her pale body cloaked in a simple light cream-colored dress. Eddard remembers how good it felt to see her, to envelop her in his embrace, to know that they were both _safe_ after this year of horror. Pulling out of his arms and gazing in between Rhaegar and her brother, Lyanna broke into a blinding smile.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Padding over to a small room off the main center of the tower, Lyanna’s bare-footed form disappeared only to emerge a moment later with a bundle cradled in her arms. She returned to the two men, pressing her back against Rhaegar’s torso, allowing his arms to envelop her slim waist. Eddard could only stare in amazement, as in that moment, the uneasy partnership between dragon and wolf became a bond finalized by blood, by a perfect little boy with an ambitious tuft of raven hair and obsidian eyes.

“Jaehaerys, meet your father and uncle.”

* * *

 

That had been the first time Eddard Stark had met Jaehaerys Targaryen. A decade later, the Lord of Winterfell met his blood yet again, a pale boy whose features were all Stark. The long face, the crown of black hair, the boy belonged to the North. However, one look at his solemn, dark indigo eyes and a study of his facial features harkened back to the man he rode to King’s Landing with, the man that fell in love with his sister. He remembers welcoming the boy and how different the two dragons that arrived in his home were. Aegon had leapt off his horse, exuberantly (and clearly well-rehearsed) shook Lord Stark’s hand and was telling everyone gathered in the yard that day to call him ‘Egg.’ His dark-haired counterpoint slowly approached the gathering of wolves that had come to greet him, gazing open Lord and Lady Stark and their five children with cautious yet curious eyes. Tentatively, the boy raised his right hand in a tiny wave.

“Prince Jaehaerys,” Eddard had said, “we’re all so happy to have you at Winterfell. The last time I saw you, you were just a lad of a few days.”

“You can call me Jon, my lord. My…,” his nephew had stopped to sniffle and wipe his hands down his face, “mother calls me that, it’s her Northern name for me.”

“Then you call me Uncle Ned, my boy.”

* * *

 

Tearing himself from the past and his day dreams, Eddard Stark returned to the present. The last six years of raising Jon had been indescribable, watching the shy, solemn young boy turn into a man of confidence and grace, of compassion and curiosity. The boy has become a brother to Robb. Jon always sang Sansa the songs she wanted to hear and acted as one of three over-protective brothers around her. Eddard’s third child, Arya, was Jon’s shadow from the first day he was at Winterfell, and he sometimes wondered if both wolf and dragonwolf had inherited their family’s mythical “Wolf’s Blood,” the same energy that coursed and courses through both Brandon and Lyanna’s veins. Even more was that, like the rest of the older children, Jon not only helped but _enjoyed_ raising Bran and Rickon, eager to regurgitate stories of Blackfyres and Southorn knights and dragons. In truth, his nephew had matured into a remarkable young man, and the future of the Seven Kingdoms would be very safe in the hands of ‘Egg and Jon.’

The Warden of the North returned his eyes to his liege’s message, skimming it over once again. He was thrilled that Lyanna would be accompanying his good-brother, and he eagerly awaited seeing Rhaegar for the first time in nearly a decade. Eddard would miss the boys that had become sons to him, but he knew it was time they assume their positions in the capital, to prepare Aegon to be a King, and for Jaehaerys to be his Hand.

However, something gnawing in his head bothered Eddard. Although he would never consider himself to be the brightest man in Westeros, Lord Stark trusted his intuition more than anything, and something told him that this visit promised more than simply returning the princes to the south. With their re-entrance to the politics of court, away from the refuge of Winterfell, the fact that both boys remained un-wed would be the emphasis of every noble with a daughter of appropriate age from Dorne to the Wall. And while Eddard was not so naïve to assume that anything was guaranteed, he himself had started to consider betrothals for Sansa, and the two men he raised within his walls would be excellent matches for his eldest daughter. Aegon and Jon both would give their lives for Sansa, and the girl considered herself half in love with them already, if her blushes and gazes were indication. Personally, Eddard prayed that Rhaegar was considering Sansa for his eldest son, because if the past few months have been any indication of where the affections of the teenagers within his walls lie, Jon has only one wolf on his mind, the she-wolf reincarnate, and the Warden of the North had a feeling that his nephew would object to any match that drew him away from Arya Stark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certainly longer, this chapter was necessary to establish the history and world that this story will take place in, or at least begin that process. More insight and looks at Jonyra are right around the horizon, I apologize, but the two wolves are worth it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kind words on the first chapter, I'm touched and encouraged!
> 
> Please comment and critique, thank you for reading as always!


	3. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruminations of a Little Wolf, howling at the moon.

Arya I

Arya Stark didn’t cry.

She made that vow on her tenth nameday, to stop being a little girl, to be like Robb and Egg. They never cried when they fell, or took a training sword across the chest, or when Mother wouldn’t let them have any more cakes. They weren’t like Sansa, who cried at _everything_ , from getting a drop of cream on her dress to whenever she pricked her fingers on her precious needles by mistake. But more than anything, more than just wanting to fit in with her brother and trying to be different than her sister, Arya wanted to be like Jon.

Tomorrow, as she had known for a nearly two moons now, the king would arrive to retrieve both princes. It was this thought that caused prickles of crystal water to threaten to pour from the Stark girl’s eyes. She would have to wear a dress, like Sansa. She would have to remember to say “Your Grace” and courtesy, like Sansa. There would be a feast and the Great Hall would be full of strangers, although if Egg and Jon were from the south, then everyone might not be _so_ terrible. All these _things_ would be annoying on their own, and combined they seemed positively dreadful to Arya. But right now, sitting curled into a ball on her bed, Arya Stark couldn’t care less about royals and curtsies and Sansa, because the king coming meant her best friend was leaving Winterfell.

* * *

 

It was always them, the two wolves. Closing her eyes, Ned Stark’s second daughter allowed her mind to drift back six years, to the shy boy with dark purple eyes.

She remembers craning her neck as far as it possibly could, leaning on, much to Sansa’s annoyance, her sister to get a look at the princes that Father said would be staying with them for a while. The silver one leapt off his horse, and he looked exactly as Father had told her how her uncle, the king, looked, just smaller. He was so happy, telling everyone to call him ‘Egg,’ exchanging smiles with her older brother, kissing Sansa’s hand in an exchange that must’ve made both children blush. When the crown prince got to Arya, she all but ignored his courtesies, because the second prince had come into view, and he most certainly did not look like how Mother said Targaryens looked.

She remembers how shy he seemed, and how Arya couldn’t even hear the words he said to Mother and Father. He offered Robb the same little wave he gave her parents, and nervously kissed Sansa’s hand in a move that enflamed his pale complexion. He took one step so that he was in front of Arya, and immediately her eyes sought him out, raking over him in pure curiosity.

“My lady,” he almost-whispered in his solemn voice, “I’m Jon.”

I’m sure he expected Arya to courtesy, or maybe offer her hand like Sansa. However, Arya’s mouth was moving too fast for her mind to catch up.

“You look like me,” she blurted out, “and Father. You look like _us_!”

“Arya Stark!” Catelyn had scolded, “where have your manners disappeared to?!”

Rather than get mad like Mother, Jon’s frown quirked into a smile.

“I think _you_ look like _me_.”

That night, the princes’ first supper at Winterfell, Jon silently sat across from Arya, his nervousness palpable amongst the quick companionship of the three other boys on his side of the table. Even as a girl of seven, Arya could sense how uncomfortable her cousin was, and just wanted to make him smile. Maybe he was just shy, and needed a friend? Thinking of all the things that she knew made people laugh, Arya’s youthful mind had brilliantly remembered how sometimes Robb and Theon would flick food from one’s plate to the other, and how her and Sansa would giggle. Loading a piece of a beet onto her utensil, Arya had carefully bent it back so skip it just a few inches over onto Sansa’s plate. As ingenious as her plan was, the little girl’s aim left much to be desired, and instead of landing on her elder sister’s plate, the red vegetable landed squarely in the center of Sansa’s _brand new_ , light blue dress.

All the reactions seemed to occur simultaneously, and to this day Arya remembers the eruption. Sansa’s tears, Mother’s disbelief, Bran’s giggle, the thunderous laughter from Theon, Aegon, and Robb. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw Father rise from her seat, and she resigned to her fate of being dragged away from the table. However, before her Father could lead her to her chambers, she looked back across the table, just in time to see a full, real smile framed between black hair, with now-sparkling purple eyes above it.

* * *

 

The days after her stunt at supper turned into weeks, and those weeks turned into months, all the while Jon and Aegon became a part of the Stark family. As far young Arya was concerned, the two boys were just as much her brothers as Robb was; they played with her, hiding from the girl until she found them, then the roles would switch, with Egg combing through Winterfell’s towers for her and Jon and Robb. It took until her eighth nameday though for the boy that looked so much like her to become truly special, to become her best friend. Sansa had knit her a pair of gloves for her nameday, silver just like her own eyes. Arya really had liked them, donning them immediately and dashing out into the yard to show her brothers. In her haste, however, the little wolf turned and faceplanted on the wooden floor of her sister’s room, desperately trying to break her fall with her palms. Doing so created a hole in the right glove, covering nearly half her palm, and despite her pain, it was safe to say that her older sister was not pleased.

“ARYA STARK! I SPENT THE LAST FOUR MOONS KNITTING THOSE JUST FOR Y-“

“Sansa please! I’m so sorry I just fell, I really do like them a l-“

“STOP JUST STOP! You act like such a little boy sometimes; no knight will ever want to marry you! You… you look just like a horse!”

Arya remembers how she felt frozen to floor, her eyes joining her palms and knees in stinging, and soon enough the sobs coursed through the girl on her birthday. As soon as her second wail was ready to escape her, she felt a boy kneeling next to her sprawled form, helping her to her knees. Gazing up, her silver met purple, with both pairs encased in manes of unruly curls.

“Are you okay Arya? I heard you fall, I just wanted to check on yo-“

The prince was cut off by Arya burying her head into his cloak, drying her tears effectively at the very least.

“I’m okay,” came the muffled reply, “I just sort of tripped Jon.”

She felt one of his arms wrap around her shoulders, keeping her close to him, and that was all she needed. It instantly made her pain dissipate, just like when Father would tend to her. She was conscious of him looking over her shoulder at Sansa, who still stood there enraged.

“Don’t call her that, Sansa. She’s not a horse, she’s…she’s pretty. She looks like my mother, and my mother is pretty. So that means Arya is pretty.”

Instinctively, Arya nuzzled her face deeper into Jon’s coat. That’s all it took, those two sentences to Sansa, and now Arya Stark had a new best friend.

* * *

 

A brush of silver-gray fur over her bare legs interrupts Arya from her reverie, yet another thing Jon was responsible for. She was ten when he strolled through Winterfell’s gates with Nymeria tucked under one arm, and Ghost under the other. They were the first two to dream in their second skins, before Robb and Sansa began to feel like wolves. Those gorgeous amber orbs gazed at Arya with an understanding, a connection so powerful that the emotions that Arya kept so guarded began to flow even harder, tears silently streaming down her face at the prospect of losing him.

Arya couldn’t get him out of her thoughts. Everything had changed the past year, when just a few moons ago everything they did subconsciously became conscious. There was something inherent in their blood that kept the two attached to each other. It flowed through her veins when they sparred in the dark, away from the disappointed glare of Mother, who didn’t want to see her daughter with a sword. They couldn’t be near each other without contact, from the secret brushes when they passed to each other to their conversations in the godswood, with her legs laid over his lap as they talked of living beyond the wall as wildlings, roaming the Frostfangs with a pack of direwolves as their army. Five moons ago, in that very godswood, was when Arya had her first kiss; not like the stupid kisses that Egg and Jon would give Sansa when the children used to pretend that they were two knights dueling for a maiden’s honor. No, a kiss that had her arching onto her tip-toes, pulling herself flush against her mirror’s black cloak. A kiss that made her feel silly, like Sansa’s songs, blushing and warm. When she kissed Jon that day, and for every day after that, there were no words to describe the blood roaring in her ears, demanding, craving, claiming her prince.

She pulls her knees closer to her chest, the pitch-black tunic with a tiny three-headed dragon on the right chest nearly acting as a dress. The tears wouldn’t stop, even when she heard the two knocks on the door. One bare foot hit the ground, then another, and suddenly she was silently gliding towards the door. Nymeria greeted their guest with a wet, large pink tongue, and then promptly exited the room, no doubt in search of her albino counterpart. Her wolf’s absence revealed all six feet and more of her dragonwolf, her male reflection. Their dark hair, hers just a shade lighter. Their pale skin, screaming to the entire world that they hail from the Kingdom of Winter. Automatically she was on her toes, hands searching for purchase in his midnight mane, when he gracefully ducked away from her, holding her at arm’s length by her hip.

“You know, little wolf,” Jon teased, “I’ve been looking high and low for that tunic.”

“At least it’s not leaving,” Arya spit back, although her heart wasn’t in it.

Ignoring her bite, Jon brought his other arm that wasn’t on her hip from behind his back, brandishing a long, thin, silken wrapped package.

“Then consider it your second gift, love, because I have something for you.”

Leaving her, Jon removed his boots and hoisted himself onto her bed, sitting up and stretching his legs along the bed, with the package laid across his lap. Arya trapezed across her wooden floor, pale flesh dancing in the flickering yellow and red of the fire, pressing her knees against the furs that Jon currently occupied. Gracefully, she picked up the red silk and folded herself in between Jon’s legs, pressing her back against his thinly-covered chest.

“You leave, and give me a stupid present, and that makes everything better? You’re a fool Jo-“

“Shut up and open the damned gift,” Jon half laughed and half implored, as his hands trailed down her arms to the exposed bottoms of her snow white thighs.

Sighing, her head dropped to his right shoulder as her thin fingers plucked at the wrapping, revealing a skinny, elegant blade with a dangerously sharp point for a skinny, elegant, dangerously sharp girl.

She giggled at him, through tears that contained several emotions. “It’s so skinny.”

“So are you,” Jon told her. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos that would visit King’s Landing when I was young would use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I am fast,” Arya said.

“You’ll have to continue to work then, every single day, even if I’m not here to spar with you after the keep has gone to sleep. I spoke with Jory before supper this evening, he promised to make sure you become the finest duelist in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Arya couldn’t see him, but she could visualize the smile on his face. She molded her body further to him, exposing the left side of her milk-glass neck. The invitation was received, as she felt those full, pouty lips trail up and down her neck, sparking feelings in her gut she still didn’t have names for.

“The best swords have names you know,” Jon whispered in her ear.

Closing her eyes, Arya felt her heart explode in that moment, Jon’s teeth claiming her neck, large hands wrapping around her legs, two souls twirling together in a mystical dance.

“Needle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we get to here our main girl's thoughts, a mix of teenage immaturity, natural cynicism, and total infatuation.
> 
> Please comment/critique, and enjoy!


	4. Rhaegar I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon flies north with a worry and a question.

Rhaegar I

He could have _sworn_ , just a moment ago, that two other horses rode beside him.

The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms could only watch from his charcoal destrier as his two companions gallivanted ahead, racing towards the breathtakingly sprawling keep. One minute, Rhaegar Targaryen and his tiny party seemed content to finish the ride to Winterfell in companionable silence, capping off the three-moon trot to retrieve his two sons. Even as the poet people claimed him to be, the North eluded the words that came to Rhaegar’s mind. The air had a magic to it, long lost like the magic of his own people. When he closed his eyes, Rhaegar could see forests of weirwood trees, with snow swirling around their scarlet leaves and bleeding faces. In fact, the king had just been in the middle of one of these daydreams when the rider to his right breathed out an almost inaudible “Race?” to the rider next to her.

In one single act of combustion, brother and sister had taken off, the white-armored First Man immediately falling behind the She-Wolf as the duo galloped towards their ancestral home.  Rhaegar himself, for the matter, slowed his steed to watch the love of his life’s chestnut mane flow behind her, trouncing her little brother. It had been seven and ten years since Queen Lyanna Stark had been back home, but more importantly, six since she had been separated from her pup.

A soft chuckle pulled Rhaegar’s gaze away from his wife, as his brother in everything but name saddled up next to him.

“She is truly, truly never going to change,” noted the Sword of the Morning.

“Nor do I ever want her to,” came the king’s reply.

Both sharing an amused guffaw, the two continued to close the distance between them and the Stark stronghold, eager for what waited inside the ancient gates.

* * *

 

Lyanna had told him so many stories of this castle, in such vivid detail, that he had always felt like he had been there. Now, Rhaegar found out, that even the best stories did Winterfell no justice; the gray stone towered impossibly high, the snarling direwolf omnipresent, the aura of mysticism leading Rhaegar to think that maybe Lya’s gods were the correct ones all along. The sight of his silver locks, still worn down to his shoulders, must have served as a signal to the keep, as all gathered in the courtyard began to kneel, until the most musical laughter in the realm rang out, unabandoned and completely joyous. His queen had beaten him here, and had already settled back into her old home.

“Big brother, stand back up right now!” laughed the She-Wolf, “he’s your good-brother before he’s your king, and family doesn’t bow to family!”

Almost sheepishly, Eddard Stark, his Warden of the North, straightened his back, locking eyes with his king as Rhaegar dismounted his horse. Next to him stood the Lady Catelyn, whose Tully beauty seemed untouched by age. As Rhaegar glided to the couple, his pace quickened as he met Eddard in a quick yet tight embrace, for Lyanna was correct, they were family. Pulling apart and returning to their positions, it was Eddard who first greeted his liege.

“Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”

“Nonsense, my lord. It is rare that I am able to see such a majestic place for the first time, a place that I have certainly been regaled plenty of stories about, as you can imagine,” Rhaegar punctuated his response with a chuckle.

Quickly falling back into a regal tone, Rhaegar shuffled to his left to properly greet the Lady Stark with a light embrace and brush of a kiss on her cheek, noticing the light rose that came to glow across her features. Beside her stood a boy of decent height, hair caught in an indecision between Tully red and Stark brown, handsome and proud.

“I’ve heard much about you, Lord Robb,” as Rhaegar grasped the man’s hand, “and I believe that your mother and father have every reason to be proud.”

Robb responded with a grin and nod, strongly grasping the king’s forearm in shared greeting. The North was in good hands with Robb as the Heir of Winterfell, judging from his sons’ letters and Rhaegar’s first impression of the young man.

Catelyn’s younger self stood beside her brother. All Tully blue eyes and cardinal locks, Lady Sansa Stark even matched her mother’s blush when the dragon king brushed his lips against her knuckles. A girl of four and one, if he remembered correctly, Sansa looked every part of an eldest daughter, tall, regal, and innocent. However, the next Stark down the line is the one that made his breath leave his chest, as it was if he had discovered the ability to return to the past.

Memories of mystery knights and the shore of the God’s Eye came roaring back as he looked at the skinny girl with barely contained brown her, nearly gasping audibly when two chips of melting ice matched with his amethysts.

“And you must be the Lady Arya.”

“No, just Arya.”

That same musical laughter roared from down the line of Starks, drowning out the matching chastisings from Lady Stark and her eldest daughter.

“Oh Rhaegar, I think I’m going to like her! She reminds me of someone, I just can’t seem to put my finger on it. Now come say hello to your sons,” beckoned Lyanna.

* * *

 

Sparing a smile for the two youngest Stark lads,  who beamed with puffed out chests in response, Rhaegar Targaryen laid eyes on his two sons for the first time in six years.

If Lady Stark and Sansa had been identical, and his Queen and niece were duplicates, then that theme was continuing when violet gazed upon violet. His family’s silver-blonde, slightly wavier than his own, worn down to his shoulders. Tall, mayhaps an inch below his own six feet and four inches, and lean, in a way that hinted at marital prowess without being bulky. The two dragons, images crafted in the mold of Old Valyria itself, closed the distance between each other and met in a crushing hug, as the court of Winterfell witnessed the reunion.

Pulling back, Rhaegar gazed upon his eldest son. As a boy, Aegon’s energy was such that Rhaegar could almost see the gears in his head churn as his eyes lit up. Now, a man, that same vigor remained, only complimented by a sense of duty, a confidence as he returned his father’s examining look with a wry smile.

“I’ve gotten just a bit taller, Father, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

There would be time to further get to know the man that Eddard Stark raised, but for now, Rhaegar could only laugh along with his son, the perfect image of an heir.

Rhaegar turned his body to the left, only to have his heart melt instantaneously. Two people occupied a spot for one, dueling manes of Stark colored locks mashed together. Lyanna, despite it being her idea, had cried for five full moons after her boy had rode North to the wolf side of his blood. The two had always been inseparable, from the tower where they found joy to the scarlet castle of the capital. Wolves were fiercely protective, and Lyanna protected her boy with her life, in those first few years when Rhaegar and Lyanna had torn down, brick by brick, everything that had poisoned past Targaryen kings, purging their court and looking at the city as a blank slate. As a toddler, she took him to the godswood within the Red Keep’s gardens to introduce Jon to her gods, to tell him stories of his brave grandfather Rickard and wild uncle Brandon and kind uncle Ned. She tended to every cut and scrap, dried every tear, turned every little frown into a smile. Now, she-wolf and pup were reunited, and his queen refused to let go of their shared joy. Sensing him drawing near, Lya turned back to face Rhaegar with tears streaming down her face, pressing herself to the young man’s side to allow a father to get a look at his son.

Jaehaerys Targaryen would always just be Jon to him, the black-haired, dusky purple-eyed boy, with sweetness and curiosity abounding. The boy was a man now, at least in appearance. Raven locks flowed to his shoulder, pale skin allowing his obsidian-indigo eyes to stand out like precious jewels. Like Aegon, Rhaegar could not wait to see the man that Jon had become. For now, however, all the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men could do was swallow a happy sob and join his wife and son in an embrace.

* * *

 

After their party of four’s arrival, Stark and Targaryen clans dissipated to attend to individual matters. Immediately after sizing up the two princes that he showed their first training swords to, Ser Arthur Dayne demanded that Aegon, Jon, Robb, and Theon meet him in the training yard for a bit of humbling. Lyanna had given him a gentle kiss on the cheek before departing with Benjen for the crypts of Winterfell, as this was his first return to Winterfell since swearing his Kingsguard vows. The three youngest Starks sprinted off to watch the show in the training yard, while Lady Sansa, her mother, and most of the household continued preparations for the feast later this evening. Two men now remained, and as if they had read each other’s minds, Eddard Stark waved for Rhaegar to follow him to Winterfell’s most sacred site.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to visit this place,” spoke the dragon king, as he and the Quiet Wolf glided by the ominously dark pool that lay in the heart of the godswood.

“There truly is no place like it, Your Grace,” replied Eddard, adding, “Lya used to come here when Father would ask her to stop shooting arrows and to begin her lessons, or when Northern lords would bring their sons around looking for her hand. Her answer was to simply hide here.”

The two men shared a laugh at that thought, a young Lyanna sprinting away from a teenaged Umber or Karstark to seek refuge amongst her gods. They fell into contemplative silence after that, both men silently guessing which would speak first, as they knew there was a reason for this conversation.

“Rhaeg-“

“I need you, good-brother. You want to know why Lyanna and I are so happy to be here? Yes, of course to see our sons, but because this Northern air soothes every machination that we’ve grown sick of in King’s Landing. It blows politics and worries away. There is no stewing lions or bumbling roses up here. I need your help.”

Nodding slowly, Eddard replied, “Whatever it is Rhaegar, I promise you honest counsel, as I have since the day we rode from together from the Trident.”

Rhaegar let his usual regal, masked persona slip away, eschewing courtesy and for what seemed like the first time in ages, spoke candidly with someone that was not his wife or mother.

“I have four unmarried children, Eddard, five if you include my sister. Four of them are at least six and ten, while Rhaelle approaches her third and tenth nameday soon enough. Every moon a dozen lords march their sons and daughters in front of me, expecting an answer. I allowed my brother to marry for love, my lord, and I do not regret that decision. But Viserys is not the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, nor is he a beautiful princess. I feel like they’re all descending on me sometimes, Eddard. Tyrells, Lannisters, Hightowers, the whole blasted lot of them.”

Eddard regarded him for what felt like hours, seemingly knowing somehow.

“No one can ever claim me to be a bright man, Your Grace, nor a political man. What we have in common in this situation is that we are fathers, fathers to children who can be a part of this realm’s future. I can’t tell you what strong, caring young men your sons have turned in to, any lady would be fortunate to be their wife.”

Rhaegar’s heart swelled at this, confirming Lyanna’s decision to send the two princes north to learn from the most honorable man in all of Westeros.

“I know that Southorn news does not reach Winterfell very regularly, my lord, but nearly every major house south of the Neck has trotted a son or daughter in front of me the past year. Lord Tyrell not only has two sons looking for a wife, but a daughter of five and ten as well. Doran has kept his eldest unmarried for some reason, although she exceeds my boys’ by about five years. By the gods, even Tywin Lannister made his first journey to the city since he swore me fealty to parade his granddaughter of one and ten! One and ten Eddard!”

As he thought of all the realm’s young lords and ladies, his mind churned back to just an hour past, where he met a proper young heir along with two young ladies. The pieces of this puzzle fit together perfectly in the king’s head, as this conversation matched up perfectly for the second reason that this conversation in the godswood was necessary.

“Tell me, Lord Stark, and I apologize for dominating this conversation, but tell me of how my sons treated your daughters these past few years?”

Almost as if he expected this turn in conversation, Eddard replied, “Almost immediately, the boys looked out for Sansa, not knowing they fulfilled all her dreams of Southorn knights and princes that her mother has told her. Jon would play her all her favorite songs, Aegon threatened any boy that dare look at her too long, and they worked with Robb to give her not one older brother, but three protectors.”

Again, Rhaegar’s heart bloomed in a way that he missed these last six years. It was indescribable to know that his heir and his second son had turned into _men,_ who would care for their kin, care for their wives, care for the realm. But Eddard was not finished.

“As for Arya, you might have noticed her resemblance to a certain queen. It goes beyond looks, Your Grace. She was never interested in Jon’s harp or Aegon’s voice. She wanted to watch the boys spar, and eventually she joined them. She hid in the stables with them, flinging manure at Robb alongside the boys. My second daughter has Lyanna’s wolfsblood…”, as Eddard paused, seemingly debating what to say next.

“My father taught me to be observant, and Jon Arryn reinforced that. Over the past five or so moons, Arya stopped wanting to spar with Aegon and Jon, for just Jon. Arya Stark is her aunt born again, and I dare say that while your son may not have your looks, he is more like you than you would imagine in that regard.”

Harrenhal came rushing back as Eddard finished speaking; winter roses, angry stags, ice and fire. Rhaegar’s blood rushed at his good-brother’s words, the combined mysticism of Rhaegar’s mind and the godswood roaring in approval at this suggestion.

Almost abruptly, so abruptly that he surprised himself with how easy the words came, Rhaegar asked the question that had been weighing on him since he decided to ride north.

“My lord, your father-by-law grows more infirm every day, and while he has been an able Hand since we restored peace to these kingdoms, I fear Lord Hoster needs to return to Riverrun. I ask you now, not as your king, but as your good-brother, for your help. Ride south with me. With the boys you raised. With your daughters. I need you in King’s Landing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to happen!
> 
> Please don't consider this start cliche, as I assure you that the coming action is anything but. However, the King does need his Warden of the North in the capital, and he'll bring two important visitors in tow.
> 
> Please comment/critique, and enjoy!


	5. Lyanna I

Lyanna I

The last time the queen had been in the Great Hall of Winterfell, she was a lady, although she protested even that title.

Lyanna Stark was the North personified; beautiful, wild, and willful. The She-Wolf of Winterfell was just as beautiful as she approached her second nameday beyond thirty as she was when she was a girl of six and ten, just as wild as she was when she picked up the weirwood-adorned shield at Harrenhal. But the past two decades had given her grace and strength, befitting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A queen that had overseen the scrubbing and overhaul of King’s Landing’s court, the transformation of a rotten, putrid city to one not seen in Westeros, with systems of expelling waste, buildings and monuments of marble instead of stone, and a city that cared for the smallfolk rather than ignore them.

Lyanna Stark rode into the capital with her husband and her brother nearly two decades ago, her joy swaddled in her arms as she had entered the city for the first time. Her storm gray eyes observed the disaster of a settlement that had been stewing for nearly three centuries, neglected by silver-haired madness and purple-eyed delusion. Things were going to change, she had promised, the same promise her prince made to her when he rode from Dorne to join the fray. Her king was not mad, nor delusional. He was strong, graceful, ambitious, and hers. And she, his. Together, the two of them swore to remake Westeros, a song of ice and fire brought to life.

The queen had entered King’s Landing with one child, and quickly gained two more. Two dragons that glowed with the sun, a beautiful girl of six and a energetic boy of nearly two. She had met them in the court room, the two of them and their infant aunt, watched over in the throne room with indescribable ferocity by an immaculately gorgeous yet haunted woman. No introductions were needed that day, as the dowager queen had descended the Iron Throne with tears in her perfect lilac eyes to greet her good-daughter and son, to usher in the future of the Seven Kingdoms.

Five years later, Lyanna and Rhaegar would welcome another dragonwolf into the world. The inverse of her older brother, Rhaelle Targaryen, or Ellie as she was known to the court of the Red Keep, was all Targaryen locks and Stark eyes, a girl enchanted by the mysteries of the world. How she would beg Lyanna for stories of direwolves and wildlings and weirwoods, and how even from a young age, Ellie delighted in spending time with her mother and brother within the Red Keep’s godswood, their blood of the First Men roaring in approval. Her baby girl was still in the south, learning from the brilliant women that their family was fortunate to have. From her grandmother to her aunt to her older sister, Rhaelle Targaryen would learn to be just as strong as her fellow dragons.

However, for all the positives of her new life, from the five prodigies she was a mother for to the new world that her and Rhaegar were building, Lyanna Stark missed home. Every time a presumptive lord trotted his son or daughter out to be wed to one of the dragons, or every subtle threat the Old Lion made, or Jon Connington glared at her with a loaded look, her Wolf’s Blood roared, yearning for winter. Now, she was home.

After paying her respects to her Wild Wolf and her father with her Kingsguard brother, Lyanna had joined Rhaegar and Ned in the godswood for a continuation of Rhaegar’s pitch to her brother for him to join them in the south. The people of court japed that Rhaegar would never make a decision with his lady love, and while Rhaegar was perfectly capable of ruling the Seven Kingdoms on his own, Lyanna Stark was, from the first day of his reign, his chief advisor. The queen’s heart leapt when it was confirmed that her older brother would rejoin the rest of their original pack in King’s Landing, joined by three little wolves. Right now, Lyanna had the best view in the Great Hall of these three wolves from the table where she, Rhaegar, Ned, and Catelyn sat at the font of the room.

Breathing in the cool air of the North had done wonders for Lyanna’s spirit, infusing it with unrestrained joy as she partook in the feast that her brother and Lady Catelyn had so generously thrown for their guests. Neither Rhaegar nor Ned were men of extravagance, but tonight was more so a celebration of their children, of the men that Robb, Aegon, and Jon had become. From talking with her boys before the feast with their father to observing the three young men who had become brothers, Lyanna’s heart was full with the knowledge that her big brother had taught honor, duty, and quiet confidence to the two princes. Aegon had always been a handful as boy, in the best way possible, his mind always working double time as he was sprinting around Maegor’s Holdfast causing trouble with his big sister. Lya was the only mother that Egg had ever known, and she made sure to team with his grandmother to infuse as much maternal love into his upbringing as possible, and to see the combination of said love and her brother’s guidance of the crown prince pay off was unbelievably rewarding. Gazing out into the hall, Egg was the picture of natural charisma and learned grace, with his arms around Robb and Theon Greyjoy reminiscing on the past six years of their lives. But the boy that drew her undivided attention sat off on the right wall, locked in a heated whisper with the younger version of herself. Her pride and joy had grown into a remarkable young man, and Jaehaerys Targaryen was finally coming home.

Her silver dragon was undoubtedly the love of her life, but her first born son had received every piece of her heart from the moment he had entered the world. Wolves are fiercely protective of their pups, and Lyanna put her soul into raising her boy. All Stark features with the most beautiful obsidian-indigo eyes, she had comforted every cry from Jon, showed him her gods, given him his first practice sword, and counseled the young prince through every trial and tribulation that the young boy underwent in the capital. The two wolves’ tears would not relent the day that she sent him north to his uncle, and today the two reunited in an equally emotional embrace. Jon’s gentle curiosity and introverted nature was still on display, but to Lya’s delight, there was now a quiet confidence brimming within him. Jon and Lyanna had always had to endure sneers and snark, especially in their first few months in King’s Landing. She could tolerate the names and looks, but the first time that the word “bastard” had been used in court was the only time that her husband’s anger visibly matched what her Wolf’s Blood was capable of, how he had Arthur drag Janos Slynt into the yard before he took the man’s head himself, respecting the First Men ways that Lyanna had told him so much about.

Now, she-wolf and pup were reunited, her beautiful boy was returning home with her. Jon towered over Lyanna now, as tall as his father and brother, with long black hair and those breathtakingly unique eyes. She watched as her son left her youngest niece to join in his brothers in a half mourning, half celebration for their childhood, not knowing that the future of Westeros largely rested on the four boys’ shoulders. She could never thank Ned enough for the past six years, for raising his son to be the next Warden of the North, for shaping Theon into a different man than his own father, for raising the future king and probable Hand. A fond smile came to the queen’s face as she saw Jon and Robb clink their mugs together, reminding her of Brandon and his friends during her youth in this very hall. However, a different wolf caught her eye, melancholy and emotion pouring from her at the spot that her own son had just left. Raising herself from her seat, Lyanna made her way over the right side of the Great Hall to have a conversation with her niece.

“Why the frown, pretty girl?”

As her niece lifted her head, Lyanna stared at the younger version of herself. The brown curls, the big gray eyes, and long, elegant face. Arya’s frown looked permanent in that moment, and it was easy for Lya to discern why. Both her husband and brother had informed her about the growing bond between her dragonwolf and niece, one that already harkened back to a different union that arose in Harrenhal, sixteen years ago. From Ned’s stories of Arya to the way that she had requested that the _king_ omit the “lady” from her title, Lyanna suspected that she and Arya Stark had more in common than looks, and she was determined to not let that wild spirit die in the south, the same vow that Lyanna made to herself every single morning.

For her part, Arya looked caught off guard by the sudden appearance of her aunt, and initially stammered through her response.

“N-nothing Aunt Lyanna, it’s simply late that’s all, today has been a lon-“

Laughing, Lyanna could not help but interrupt her niece, asserting, “The sun has just barely set, Arya! Besides, I know how you feel. Whenever your uncles would leave for their fosterings, I was never the happiest either.”

She heard Arya let out a barely audible sigh, tears swelling in her eyes, a deep contrast to the fierce little wolf that Arya Stark was purported to be. Immediately, Lyanna’s heart softened, remembering how much she had loathed crying, _especially_ in front of people, when she was a teenager. Her niece was not even looking at her anymore, instead gazing deep into the hall to seek out the pair of dark indigo eyes. Finally, Lyanna’s words registered with Arya, who with a tiny nod turned to face her aunt.

“Sansa is the one that is supposed to be sad, Aunt Lyanna. She’s the one that Mother had always told stories about the south to, the one that was supposed to love the prince and wear her pretty dresses. I… I don’t want to be sad.”

Lyanna moved even closer to her replica, and even though today was their first meeting, Wolf’s Blood did not care for courtesies and manners, and as her arm moved to her niece’s back, Arya automatically dropped her head to her aunt’s shoulder, kin recognizing kin spiritually.

“When I was your age, Arya, I hated the idea of dresses and knights and _growing up_ too.” Growing serious, she pulled back to look her niece in the eyes, two clashing storms of gray. “We are wolves, Arya Stark, from the sigil we carry to the blood that flows through us. Wolves aren’t meant to be tamed, ever. Be wild. It is okay to cry, to feel. Do not ever feel weak, because you are a wolf.”

A smile threatened on Arya’s face, in stark contrast to the tears that were now flowing down her face. The dark place of Lyanna’s mind went to what had happened to where Arya was so resistant to show her feelings, to where her Southorn mother and her clashed.

“I,” as Arya paused to muster her courage, dipping her head before once again meeting Lya’s eyes, “am just going to miss Jon so much, Aunt Lyanna.”

So much was said by such few words, just from the visible courage that Arya needed to muster to speak.

Both wolves simultaneously turned to look at Jon, catching him perfectly as he glanced across the room at them. Offering the same, rare, gentle smile that he had since he was a boy, accompanied with a tiny wave, Lyanna and Arya could not help but return the look, smiles upon two sets of full lips.

Slowly rubbing her niece’s back, Lyanna chanced conversation, offering Arya a question.

“Tell me about him, about my boy. Why are you going to miss him?”

For the next hour, as the feast’s participants descended into good-natured drunkenness and revelry, with Rhaegar accompanying the hall’s bards in lively music while her brothers japed with Arthur, Arya Stark had told Lyanna story after story of her adventures with Jon during the past six years.

“Oh, and one time Aunt Lya, Jon and I had _really_ wanted more berry tarts from that night’s supper, so he promised to keep look out while I… borrowed some from the kitchen. Only he made a big deal that someone was coming and sprinted away! When I ran after him, I saw no one there, until he popped out from around the corner, making me drop every single tart I had managed to get!”

The two she-wolves erupted with matching laughter after that, and Lya’s heart soared hearing about how Jon would spar with Arya at dark, the only time that she could get away from her mother’s scolding, or how Jon would beg Ned to allow her to join the boys on hunts, even if it just meant riding alongside the older boys. It was clear that her boy loved Arya Stark, regardless of how young they may seem, and that Arya Stark loved him. It was obvious that Ned had yet to inform his children of his plans to join the king in King’s Landing, so Lyanna figured she would take it upon herself to break the news.

“Arya, dear, what if I told you that you didn’t have to miss Jon?”

Clearly confused, Arya only quirked an eyebrow, searching for a response that was somewhere upon her lips. Taking mercy on the girl, as riddles had never been Lyanna’s favorite either, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms decided to just come out with it.

“Your uncle has asked your father to ride with him after our visit, little wolf. Your grandfather has not been feeling his best the past year or so, and while he needs his rest, there must be a Hand of the King. There is no better choice than your father, and he wants to bring you with him.”

The words visibly settled on Arya, her eyes gaining a new shine to them, like snow falling upon the gray of Winterfell’s walls. Her face was full of hope, a brand-new reality that she had yet to consider taking hold in her heart. Lyanna knew the feeling, when her prince had offered her an escape from the brute she had been promised, from the reality that she had resigned herself to.

“Really?” Arya asked, her mind warring with believing it.

At the nod of her head, Lyanna was sprung upon by her niece, with Arya’s arms wrapping around her neck in a joyful embrace. Just like herself, Arya seemed to wear her expressions on her sleeve, and Lyanna promised to protect her little wolf when they rode south together, to allow her all the practice swords she desired, to ensure that Arya never needed to ask permission to ride bareback through the Kingswood, to allow her to love who she wanted to love.

With identical smiles, Lyanna pulled back from her niece.

“My little wolf, we are going to have so much fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the few days of no updates, but get ready for three/four updates before this week is over, as our action is finally ready to begin!
> 
> This chapter is the last one that will focus on exposition, and establishing our main POV characters going forward. Of course there will be additional characters, but these five will really drive the story.
> 
> As always, please do enjoy and comment/critique! Thank you for reading!


	6. Jaehaerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar's other reason for visiting the North is executed, and myths become reality.

Jaehaerys II

_Knock knock_

Groaning, Jaehaerys Targaryen rose from his bed at the same time his white wolf raised his head from his own slumber, scarlet eyes locking with indigo as they responded to their early morning rousting. The sun had not even crested yet, and pulling open his door, Jae was taken back to when he was a boy of eight when he would be woken for his morning lessons. The same man that did it then was doing it now, as the Sword of the Morning greeted the prince with a wry smile.

“Top of the morning, Princess, but we have places to be.”

Confused, Jaehaerys wracked his brain for any note of a journey that his father or uncle had mentioned last evening, only to come up empty. His family had feasted and laughed and cried together until early in the morning, a last celebration featuring Jae’s two families, dragons and wolves come together. Sleep was even more delayed last evening, as a certain little wolf had decided to visit the prince after the castle had shut off their lights. Words did Jae and Arya no good last evening, as the emotions they felt had no known descriptions. The intangible feeling of nostalgia washed over them, the joy of being together causing their souls to sing, the fear of losing each other hanging over each kiss and embrace. Their usual contact was not enough last night, as their Wolf’s Blood demanded _more_ than their full lips locked together, than fierce kisses along each other’s neckline. Jae’s mind wandered to how Arya shuddered when he placed his hands under the slim-fitting tunic that she had donned, to how natural it felt when he felt her hips roll against his strained breeches. They both gained control of themselves just as they were about to tip over the edge of control, pulling back to press their foreheads together, breathless and ghosting at soft smiles. That had been a mere few hours ago, a stark contrast from the most famous knight in the Seven Kingdoms rousting you for a mysterious adventure.

Pulling himself out of last night’s memories, Jaehaerys shot the man he considered family a glare, earning a chuckle from Ser Arthur.

“Breeches, tunic, and you might want to bring that fur cloak of yours, where we’re going might be a bit colder than here. Hurry too, your father and brother are waiting in the yard.”

* * *

 

A few minutes later, Jae stumbled into the main courtyard of Winterfell to be greeted by dual manes of silver-blonde and Arthur. He had donned his brand-new doublet that Sansa had just gifted him three days prior, the Targaryen three-headed dragon adorning the right breast, only with the traditional black field and red creature replaced by a gray background and white beast, reflecting both of Jae’s families. The king looked as nonplussed by the early hours as he did in reaction to most things, while Egg seemed to be even sleepier than himself, barely grasping the reigns of his horse.

Jaehaerys’ brows were firmly furrowed together, asking his father, “I’m more than happy to see you again, Father, you know that. But where in the gods are we going?”

Rhaegar and Arthur exchanged a smile at this, Jae noticed, even furthering his confusion.

“When I sent you boys north, I made Lord Stark promise to leave this part for me. Come on now, we have quite the journey ahead of us.”

For nearly half a moon the four men rode along the Kingsroad into the heart of the North, the true North. They had stopped to feast with House Forrester, reveling in the majesty of the Wolfswood, strode past the increasingly icy waters of the Long Lake, and revived the bond that had existed between the men in the princes’ youth. Houses Dayne and Targaryen had been intertwined since his father and Ser Arthur had recognized each other as brothers in everything but name, far before Jae and Egg had been born. Ser Arthur had been a constant presence in both boys’ lives since they could remember, ensuring that the boys stayed out of _too_ much trouble, walking them through their first lessons with a sword, and taking it upon himself to personally deliver the two to Lord Stark. The knight’s sister, the Lady Ashara, also lived in King’s Landing with them. “Aunt Ashara” was a constant presence in all the Targaryen children’s lives, whether it was assuaging Rhaenys’ tantrums, sneaking treats to Daenerys, or entertaining the boys with stories of Dorne’s most legendary fighters, from her own brother to the Red Viper. A member of their father’s Small Council, Ashara Dayne had been both Jon and Egg’s first infatuation, with her deep purple eyes, midnight black hair, and immaculate hourglass figure. Even more was when the boys were nine and eight, respectively, Egg and Jon’s Uncle Viserys wed Arthur and Ashara’s younger sister, Allyria, a marriage of love that had developed while the younger Lady Dayne had served as one of the queen’s handmaidens. The two houses were bound by blood now, and during their journey further north, Jae and Egg rekindled their bond with the white knight, a mix of paternal affection, bawdier jokes than the last time they were all together, and plenty of stories from all three parties.

This spontaneous ride had also given both princes an opportunity for their father to meet the men that they had become. Oftentimes, Jae and Egg found themselves broken off from their small pack with just their father. Aegon would ride along Arthur when Jae and the king were locked in conversation, and invariably the princes would switch places, reveling in their father’s attention as if they were boys again. As children, every moment that the young Targaryens got to spend with their father was precious. Each dragon had their own special ways to interact with Father. Rhae was the most affectionate with their father, the only one of them that had memory of when their grandfather reigned. Egg had once said, when he was deep in his cups, when he would transition from lubricated to morose, that Rhaenys only loved their father, and that their lady mother meant nothing to her. The ring leader of all their youthful plots, Jae did miss his big sister, despite her tendencies to boss him around and pout when her way wasn’t unanimously received. When Aegon would spend time with Father, Jae remembered how his brother would beg the king to play pretend with the two young dragons. If the boys were playing one their favorite games, ‘Black Dragon and Red Dragon,’ Egg, masquerading as Daemon Blackfyre, would beg their father to join his side as Bittersteel, while Jae, pretending to be Bloodraven, would plead with the king to help him as Baelor Breakspear. Dany was always perched on Father’s lap with the constant request of stories about dragons and their homeland, while Ellie, even at her young age, shared their father’s love for reading and learning, often spending the day with him in King’s Landings now-sprawling gardens, picking winter roses for their mother. However, Jae was unique in his bond with his father. His mother had often said that father and son “had the same souls,” and while away at Winterfell, Jae supposed that was true. They both tended to be serious, almost melancholic, carefully choosing who received their full affections. For Father, it was Mother, his children, his own mother, and Arthur. For himself, it was his parents, Egg, and Robb. And Arya. Especially Arya. It was Father that shared his own talents with Jae; not even Egg received that. Jae received his harp on his sixth nameday, smaller than his Father’s and made from weirwood, with dyed red strings. Each day, Father would sit down with Jae to teach him the notes, and when those were mastered, to teach him songs.

Right now, his father was in the middle of telling him how the restorations of Summerhall, Jae’s future seat, were progressing. Jae knew how special the place was to the king, how he was born there, and later found out why his father found the place so difficult to talk about.

“Trust me son, I was surprised too with how much of the castle was still left, but Lord Tyrion has visited the site more than a dozen times the past two years alone, and it’ll truly be a worthy seat.”

Jae didn’t even know what to say, the years at Winterfell distancing this reality from his mind completely.

“Father, you know I can’t express how thankful I am, I can’t wait to see Summerhall myse-“

Discussion of one magnificent place was soon forgotten, as the band of four’s destination finally came to view. Jae and Egg had begged and pleaded with Uncle Ned to be allowed to make this same journey north but were always kindly let down. Jae especially had loved the stories of the men in black, guarding the realms of men from monsters that both populated his imagination and dwelled in his nightmares. And now he was here, in all of its majestic glory, and Jae felt his breath leave his chest at the mere sight.

* * *

 

Impossibly tall, the peak of the structure disappeared into the clouds, its ice blue coating glistening in the late afternoon sun. The young prince brought his horse to a halt, right alongside his similarly-awed brother.

“Jon,” Egg began, breathlessly, “our imaginations really didn’t do this place justice, did it?”

“No they sure did not, brother, no they did not.”

As the boys spurred their horses on in pursuit of their father and Arthur, who had gained a significant lead on the gawking young men, the last few leagues of the journey seemed to pass in lightning time, and soon a single blast of a horn was signifying their arrival. Closing his eyes, Jae let his blood dance and sing, delighting in the mysticism of the Wall. Something inside him felt…awakened? Was the right word? Closing his eyes, Jae felt his dreams of white trees with red leaves, mountains with sharpened peaks, and swirling white winds come to life, even if just for a second. When he opened his eyes again, he was trotting through the gate of Castle Black.

From an early age, his father had made sure to instill the importance of the Night’s Watch in both Jae and Egg. While all the other nobleman laughed and scoffed at the ancient order, Father would tell the young boys of the sacrifice that being a black brother required, how they fought wars more important than any lord or knight did in the south. During their fostering, the princes would later learn that their father’s attention to the Watch went beyond just words. A couple of years ago, Uncle Ned had told them of how every year, the King of the Seven Kingdoms sent the Watch hundreds of men and thousands of gold dragons each year. The Warden of the North went on to tell the boys how of the Wall’s nineteen castles, only three were manned at the beginning of Rhaegar’s reign, and that Castle Black was serviced by a mere six hundred brothers. Today, ten castles boasted forces of at least one thousand men, with Castle Black watched by a force nearing four thousand, a level not seen since the generosity of the Conciliator himself, King Jaehaerys I.

Dozens of these brothers had spilled into the main yard of the Night’s Watch’s main stronghold, in shock at the sight of the first king to visit the Wall in a century, much less with both sons and Westeros’ most famous knight in tow.

Still seated upon their horses, Jae witnessed a slow wave creep through the men gathered, as they all fell to one knee at the sight of the man, whether they knew it or not, had taken it upon himself to rebuild the order from scratch. Soon, the entire castle was bent on one knee, save for one man who descended the stairs, shaking with each step.

Jae let out a sudden breath, suddenly losing his wits for a brief second. He heard Egg do the same, a sharp exhale paired with widened lilac eyes. The man was massive, draped in a flowing black cloak that did little to mask the obvious sheer mass and muscle that laid underneath his equally black doublet, adorned with a white stag. His black hair was pulled back in a northern style bun that Jae and Egg had been known to adopt from time to time, and an equally dark beard covered his face. Across his back rested a colossal war hammer, the size of which made Jae’s muscles ache at the thought of wielding it in battle. In perfect synchronicity, as soon as the man hit the last step of the staircase, Father and Ser Arthur dismounted, prompting a shell-shocked Jae and Egg to do the same.

The man strode until he was just five paces from Father, never breaking eye contact. Arthur’s right hand went to the famous sword resting on his right hip out of instinct before a glare from the king halted the precaution. Egg seemed uncharacteristically nervous, glancing from Jae to Father to the Black Stag. For his part, Jae could not tear himself from the silent conversation that the two former rivals were having, haunting lavender challenging crystal blue, daring each other to speak first. Finally, the sound of the Sword of the Morning clearing his throat prompted action, and it would be the king that would speak first.

“Lord Commander, we apologize for the sudden visit, but I felt the need to bring my sons to see the Night’s Watch in person.”

Eyes narrowing, the Lord Commander pondered Father’s words for a moment, before finding the words he wanted to use.

“We were wondering when the Dragon King would be making his trip north, weren’t we men?” boomed the Lord Commander, glancing around the yard.

Jae’s father sensed that there was more to come, taking the somewhat sarcastic heralding in stride, waiting for more from the Lord Commander.

“You will stay in the King’s Tower, _Your Grace_. Gods, we haven’t had to use it since you sent me here! Never mind that now, allow us to feast you tonight, the past is in the past. Now let me get a look at these boys of yours!”

The exchange left Jae thoroughly bewildered. The hulking man seemed…almost happy to be here? Father had always spoken about the importance of the Watch, but always emphasized the difficult life that it was. The Lord Commander seemed to take strength from his men, ruling the yard like his own personal kingdom. Jae noticed how the Black Stag’s eyes genuinely lit up at the prospect of a feast, and how his sarcastic attitude had dissipated amongst a storm of natural charisma.

The Lord Commander approached Egg first, and while his brother was a tall, capable fellow, he looked like a boy of ten next to the black-bearded leader. Jae’s big brother was physically shook when the Lord Commander grasped his forearm in greeting, just regaining his wits in time to offer a curt nod and a return of the aggressive shake.

“Looks just like ya, would you believe that!” the Black Stag called to Father, before asking Egg, “I trust that Ned raised ya right?”

Steeling himself to look in the man’s eyes, Egg again nodded, answering, “Of course he did, Lord Commander. His honor and reputation certainly precede him, and both are rooted in truth.”

Jae grinned inwardly at Egg’s attempt at what he called “his noble voice,” the formal tone that he had recently tried to develop in preparation for his return south. The Lord Commander was satisfied with the heir’s response, and now Robert Baratheon turned his attention to Jaehaerys Targaryen.

The raven-haired Targaryen did not hear the full story until he arrived at Winterfell. He had arrived for his fostering a few moons back, and his quick friendship with Robb and Egg had found the three boys hiding in the First Keep, having smuggled their first keg of ale away from the kitchen. The trio had barely made a dent in the confiscated alcohol, but for boys of one and ten, two mugs each had assured drunkenness for all participants. Their impromptu meeting had descended into storytelling, and it was Robb who volunteered to share the story of his namesake.

Both Targaryen princes had discovered an abridged history of the Rebellion when they were still in King’s Landing, tales compiled together from anyone that was willing to share. They knew that their grandfather was a bad man, and hurt a lot of people, including Jae’s own uncle and grandfather. The other kingdoms got mad at this and gathered their armies to go fight King Aerys. However, before a big battle could happen, their father rode up to the angry lords and convinced them to march peacefully to the city, so they could move Aerys to Dragonstone and Rhaegar could be king. But before that could happen, Aerys died, and Father became king anyways. All the lords and ladies of the realm pledged that they would follow them, except Lord Robert, who had always hated Father. When Lord Robert did not bend the knee, and still said he hated Father, the king sent him north to the Wall.

 _That_ was the story that Egg and Jae grew up knowing, and honestly, it hit most of the main points of the history. Robb had heard the full tale one night from when he snuck from his bedchambers whilst Lord Stark was feasting the many Lords of Umber, all men that had marched with him in the Rebellion. The Stark heir learned that night that Jae’s mother was promised to Lord Robert, except that Lyanna Stark did not want to marry the Storm Lord. Instead, she fell in love with a silver prince, and they ran away together, only to have Father return to the war when Jae’s grandfather’s madness was too great to ignore. Rhaegar had rode into the rebellious camp on the eve of battle to broker peace amongst the allied families, to assure the men that they shared the same cause. Lord Tully, Lord Arryn, and Uncle Ned all bent the knee that night, only for Robert to escalate his anger towards the prince, challenging him to a duel. A fortnight passed, and after Father had secured the city, another four moons passed while Rhaegar Targaryen was retrieving his new queen and prince, ‘me,’ Jae quickly thought to himself. When he returned to the capital, the new king had offered Lord Robert a last chance to bend his knee and serve the realm peacefully, only to find that the stag’s pride was insurmountable. Thus, he was ushered north, along with all the other lords that denied Rhaegar’s rule. And now, nearly two decades later, Jae was face to face with his father’s rival, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

The man descended on Jae like a shadow, clearly an impressive warrior, just from looks alone. While Lord Commander Baratheon’s eyes possessed an edge when greeting Father and Egg, those blue orbs softened as he studied Jae.

“And you, my boy, look absolutely nothing like him!” laughed the Lord Commander, and even Jae had to acknowledge how genial and charismatic the Black Stag was.

For his part, Jae was determined to avoid being taken off-balance like Egg was and moved to grasp the man’s forearm first.

“It is an honor, Lord Commander. My father has told me about the legend of the Watch since I was a boy, and to be here is trem-“

Cutting him off, Lord Robert seemed to care not for Jae’s courtesies, interjecting, “Tell me, boy, how your mother fares?”

From just a few feet away, Jae could see his brother’s eyes expand even further, could hear Arthur suck in a harsh breath, and witness his father’s eyes darken an almost impossibly ominous obsidian, just like his own orbs. Jae knew how loaded that question was, and how precarious his own position within the situation was. Luckily, the Sword of the Morning was there to make yet another rescue.

“Lord Commander, we’ve ridden hard for nearly a full moon now. If you could please show us our quarters, and the stables for our steeds, we’d much appreciate it.”

Arthur’s stern words left no room for negotiation, the one man that could face Robert in single combat without fear. Shaking himself from his reverie, the Lord Commander regarded Jae one last time, before turning on his heel to boom his orders to the various stewards of Castle Black.

Slowly, Jae drifted back over to his family, warily regarding his father and brother, as the faint air of confrontation and rumination lingered, despite Lord Baratheon’s departure. Silence fell upon the men, as Castle Black stirred back to life, until finally Father physically shook himself to free his anger and melancholy, replacing his frown with a genuine smile directed at his two sons.

“Aegon, Jaehaerys. I want to get to the reason we traveled here, as there is someone who desperately wants to meet you.”

* * *

 

His father led the two princes up the same stairs that Lord Baratheon had just descended when greeting them, walking them along the battlements until they made a sudden left turn on the top level of the structure, leading them down a narrow hallway near the rookery. Stopping suddenly, the king knocked twice on a heavy wooden door before turning the bronze handle, revealing a man seated in a rocking chair by a roaring fire.

Jae and Egg shared a look of confusion, especially as they saw their father’s regal mask melt away into an expression that was almost boyish, jubilant even. While Father strode on into the room, Jae studied the man, older than any soul he had come across in his young life, save for possibly Old Nan back in Winterfell. He didn’t seem to have his sight, and it looked like even breathing might be an effort for the old man. He wore a maester’s chain, and the princes’ confusion intensified until, almost simultaneously, Jae and Egg noticed the thinning silver-blonde hair adorning the man’s hair. The mark of their family.

“Uncle Aemon!” their father practically gushed, before leaning down to embrace the old maester.

Jae wracked his mind for the Targaryen family trees he studied as a boy, before finally recalling the Great Council after King Maekar died, and the son that had taken the black instead of the crown.

“My boy,” rang out Maester Aemon in a shockingly strong voice, “you finally came to me. All those dreams, all those ravens later, and you’re here, with me. Now show me my other nephews.”

Shocked that he even knew they were in the room, Jae and Egg approached the old wooden chair that their great-uncle, five or six times over, was seated in. Crouching down next to him, Aemon ran a hand down each boy’s face, tears swelling in his eyes.

“You have both been in my dreams for years, and the future is finally here. We have much to discuss, all of us, but if I could, I would like to speak to the crown prince alone first.”

Jae felt his father wrap an arm around his shoulder, ushering him out into the hall so that Egg could meet the oldest living member of House Targaryen.

For the next hour, Jae listened to his father fill in the blanks of the situation, of how Rhaegar had written to his uncle since he was a boy, from counsel about his dreams to the joy of Jae’s birth. At least, the door creaked open, revealing the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He walked towards the two other Targaryens almost gingerly, with his lilac eyes sparkling with something _magical_ , Jae decided. Both father and son furrowed their eyes at Egg’s manner until they saw what he cradled in his arms, a perfect scarlet orb, dotted with flecks of angry orange and regal gold.

As if in a trance, Egg locked eyes with Jae, managing to whisper, “It’s your turn, brother.”

* * *

 

It was if he lacked control of his body. It moved on its own volition, as he was barely conscious of the door softly closing behind him, of gliding towards the seat that Egg must have pulled next to Maester Aemon’s own chair. Slowly he sat down, gazing upon the long-lost member of his family.

“My dragonwolf, I cannot begin to say how much my heart soars at having you here with, with me”

“The honor is mine, Maeste-“

“Enough with the chain I wear, young Jaehaerys, that’s not my name. I am Uncle Aemon to you, as I am to your father.”

“Of course, Uncle, my apolo-“

“And stop with the apologies, my boy! You know, when I said that I dreamed about you, I did not lie. Your brother will need you, and it may be sooner, or may be later than you know.”

“I’ve known that since I was a boy, Uncle. All I want to be is my brother’s Hand, to be a team together, to continue what my father has started. It is my duty.”

At this, Aemon laughed softly. “A boy of six and ten, are you not, Jaehaerys? Perhaps I have simply had the luxury of more years than most, but what do you know about duty, dear boy?”

Both of Jae’s grandfathers had long departed the world, but this is what he imagined having a grandfather to be like. His uncle’s question had left him stupefied, for duty was an idea he had never given thought, for it just _was_.

“Allow me to give you a single piece of counsel,” the old Targaryen began, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. Let me tell you what I have seen in my dreams, Jaehaerys. I see wolves and lions tearing at each other, the angry sun beating down on both. All the while, cold winds arise, swirling and storming before anyone knows that winter is here. I see a fire in your heart, a love that ignites you, a passion that starts wars and ends wars. A passion that brings the darkness and brings the light. Your father nearly left the realm in ruins for love, my dear boy. I can feel the conflict in you, the blood of both ice and fire that hums within. I leave you with my counsel, Jaehaerys Targaryen. Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.”

The moment had taken on a mythical curtain, a feeling that currently had Jae’s mind reeling and heart pounding. _Love is the death of duty_. His love came to his mind, a wolf that he would kill men and burn cities for, a girl that no one could keep him from. Surely Arya Stark was not the death of duty, that both were possible? Despite his heart urging him to scoff at his relative’s words, his mind could recognize the truth.

Wiping his eyes, _he had not even realized the tears beginning to form_ , Jae nodded his head slowly, looking into Aemon’s unseeing but all-knowing eyes.

“Your words mean more than you can know, Uncle. I _promise_ to keep your counsel close to me, both in heart and mind.”

Judging from the smile spreading across his face, Aemon was pleased with his nephew’s response, nodding his head in a silent rhythm.

“Before we part, Jaehaerys, I have gifts beyond simple counsel from an old man. Turn behind you.”

And turn Jaehaerys did, coming face to face with treasure that he had only dreamed about. The chest was lined with ruby velvet, with three spheres interrupted by the absence that Egg had created, followed by a fifth beautiful oval.

“The last of them in the known world, my boy,” called Aemon, “strength for our family’s future. The time has come for the music of dragons to once again come alive.”

Now understanding the trance that Egg had been in, Jae’s hands slowly reached for the last egg in the row, a beautiful light blue dotted with seemingly cascading dots of snow white. Jae immediately felt the life inside, singing to him, calling to him. His blood roared in approval in perfect harmony, only to have the old Maester offer him one more gift.

“Look upon the mantle, Jaehaerys. Not the sword of kings, but of their protectors. The first queen wielded it in defense of the conqueror, the Dragonknight used it to defend a king he hated, and the last man to bear it used it to protect the entire realm, no matter what. Use it in your duty, Jaehaerys Targaryen, from this day, until your last.”

Grabbing the scabbard with shaking hands, Jae slowly unsheathed the blade from its leather holder. The pommel was a flame with six burning tails, leading to the ruby encrusted in the heart of the blade’s handle. Dark red and black rippled in the glow of the flames, and it was as if Dark Sister was made for his hand. The magic of Jaehaerys Targaryen’s dreams was becoming real, and it was time for him to play his role in the future of the realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our longest chapter yet, and things are happening!!!!
> 
> I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate comments, and any author, particularly fan-fic writers, are 100% fueled by feedback! I love interacting with you guys, so please don't be shy!
> 
> Please do comment/critique, and enjoy! :)


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